


in heaven, love comes first

by sungchanery



Series: heaven is a place on earth [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Black Mirror Episode: s03e04 San Junipero, Car Sex, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Disco, Drive-in Cinemas, Exhibitionism, Finger Sucking, Multi, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Read Author's Notes, Rollerblades & Rollerskates, Spit As Lube, Spit Kink, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungchanery/pseuds/sungchanery
Summary: To him, San Junipero tastes like Dr. Pepper, Ten’s tongue like strawberries and Yuta’s own like the cheap, sticky lip gloss he steals from her. And above everything else, love tastes like them all.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Nakamoto Yuta, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Nakamoto Yuta/Suh Youngho | Johnny, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny, Nakamoto Yuta/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: heaven is a place on earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040938
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	in heaven, love comes first

**Author's Note:**

> henlo :D
> 
> im here with - quickly, everyone act surprised - another fic filled with retro aesthetics because i'm really keen of it and [cpt holt voice] you WILL hear it again!! a big thank you to [lua](https://twitter.com/pinkhrj) for being my hype beast and [mari](https://twitter.com/kuns_dimples) for always reading what i throw her way!
> 
> this is based on the san junipero episode universe, so for those who haven't watched it and want some insight, i'll explain how it works here . (i would say it is kind of a spoiler, but not that big in my opinion, so if u wanna watch the episode, proceed on ur own accord!) 
> 
> so, basically, san junipero is a simulated reality city where people can visit, all inhabiting their younger selves' bodies in a time of their choice, either indefinitely or for one night at a time. here, johnyuten choose to be in the 70s for a night (they're in their 20s there) but in the physical world they're older (around 50ish) so they have all their thoughts and memories of their physical world selves even while being in the past . 
> 
> additionally, ten in san junipero is post-op, but she Does mention a memory in which she wasn't, so if transition implications make u uncomfortable, maybe u should tread lightly. 
> 
> that being said, I HOPE YALL ENJOY !!!!

If San Junipero was a drink, in Johnny’s eyes, it would be a can of sparkling Dr. Pepper. 

It’s not what anyone would expect and seek out only by the name, not really; but with a single taste it’s something one easily gets addicted to.

First, comes the cherry, the plum, overtaking the senses, so common yet so strong — people swarming the streets like it’s Saturday night at any given point of time, a couple kissing on top of a car hood like it will be their last time and children sucking on sugary, sticky Charms lollipops while running out of the cinema, witnessing the cinematic institution that Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope is for the first time.

(But not named like that until the 80s, Johnny knows; but he won’t spoil anyone’s fun.) 

But then —  _ then  _ comes the spice, vanilla and cinnamon burning your tongue under the fizz, leaving behind an aftertaste like a signature — the air smells of sex, of weed, of menthol scented cigarette smoke; every alley holds a ton of secrets in its gritty brick walls, every touch brings a kiss and every kiss brings a moan out of someone’s lips where everyone can hear, barely muffled inside a popped collar. 

It rains only once a week in San Junipero, like there is no place for sadness and Johnny, ever so forgetful, decides that it is a lovely day for bell-bottoms on  _ this  _ exact day that the skies let their bottled up feelings loose in the form of fat, salty, rain-like tears. He needs to find cover, to reach the double, metal doors of the place Ten told them to meet faster; he is running ten minutes late and unlike everything else, time in San Junipero means  _ the world. _ So Johnny runs, neon blue bell-bottom pants be damned, and in two minutes instead of five he finds himself where he wants to be. 

Nothing screams Johnny Suh these days more than the DJ’s sultry, lips-pressed-on-the-mic raspy kind of voice announcing that the next song,  _ Play That Funky Music,  _ is dedicated to Joy, from Taz. And now, he is neither white nor knows anyone that in any way is named Taz other than the Tasmanian Devil; but he sure is queer, sure is in love, and  _ sure  _ walks up to the DJ himself the moment he spots his lovers, eyes on Yuta’s while he makes a request for  _ (Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty.  _

“Johnny!” 

Ten surges towards him at an unexpected speed, the little rainbow led lights embedded in the wheels of her rollerskates spin-blending into white. She takes hold of the railing with one hand and comes to a halt right in front of Johnny’s face, mustard yellow, chipped nails digging in his nape when she pulls him down for a quick kiss, strawberry on ash. When they part, Johnny’s tip of the tongue reaches out to lick lip gloss off his lips, but only before Yuta’s own does it instead, something equally sticky but extremely artificial mixing with the ashened berry flavor in Johnny’s mouth. 

“You’re late,” Yuta notes with a tone devoid of accusation but with a squeeze of Johnny’s ass for emphasis. “Was it this hard to get in these pants?” 

“What is he wearing again?” Ten joins the Johnny teasing bash, body hanging off the half-wall of the rink in order to check out the pants they are talking about for herself. Her face scrunches in disgust as she straightens up, her balance impeccable even when on eight, flimsy wheels on slippery hardwood. “Just because it’s  _ in,  _ that doesn’t mean  _ you  _ should be in it, Johnny. You look like Elton John on a budget.” 

A snort echoes around the hall, turning heads, startling one girl off her skates and Johnny belatedly realises that this is all because of his still wet from the pouring rain, skin-tight pants. And Ten. And maybe Yuta’s hand, currently squeezed between stretched out fabric and Johnny’s right asscheek in his back pocket. 

“Ah, Ten. Always the center of attention. Never change,” Johnny smiles fondly, cheeks red but not from embarrassment — only from the equally loving stare of the people he can call  _ his  _ for a few hours of the day in this city, their undivided attention his to bathe in. 

“Not gonna, so come here and steal the show with me, baby,” she tempts and winks at him, her round, red-tinted glasses slipping down the slope of her nose. She pushes herself off the safety railing and rolls backwards, joining the stream of people skating around the rink. “And oh! Please bring Yuta, he won’t let me pull him in!” 

With Ten’s distant yelling, Johnny turns to his boyfriend, still in close proximity at his side and quirks an eyebrow, as if asking him if that’s the truth. Yuta scoffs, raking a hand through the gelled back strands of his hair, a single tuft escaping the rest and falling on his forehead. He looks hot, like he does every moment Johnny lays his eyes on him and becomes even more so by the second as Johnny keeps staring.

“It’s not really my thing,” he shrugs, nail fiddling with the ring around his thumb. “I prefer to watch. Ten’s skirt just flies around whenever she does all those little twirls of hers. I’m having my own kind of fun.”

“Okay, peeping Tom, let us not ruin your  _ fun,  _ whatever kind of it this is," Johnny escapes Yuta’s hold and lets his tied together rollerskates fall off his shoulder, walking towards an empty bench a few steps farther to put them on. "I’m calling dibs on her for tonight, if you’re like this, though.” 

Yuta’s interest sparks with that and he follows him like a dog after Johnny hurled his chew toy in a game of catch, aware of the weird kind of possessiveness that resides in his boyfriend even after all those years of them being together. It’s neither ill-mannered nor toxic; just stems from Yuta’s overprotective tendency to latch onto everything he considers his, to taste all of it, keeping it behind tight lips and on his tongue like slow melting candy made to savor. 

“Since when watching is not part of sharing? I thought that all those times you’ve come in your pants ogling at us fucking on your bed were enough to let it sink in.” 

“Oh, I said nothing about you not being there, did I? You can watch. It’s your  _ own kind of fun.”  _

“Quoting me verbatim will take you nowhere, dove. I love knowing that you hang from my lips.”

“You know that you always have my attention,” Johnny smiles up at Yuta, giving a last tug on the laces of his rollerskates before he blindly ties them into secure knots. “But tonight I think you'll have to leave the lip hanging to me and Ten."

"Have fun, babe," Johnny slides away on the carpet with slow, short strides and Yuta doesn’t try to stop him; his eyes burning holes on Johnny’s back tell him everything he needs to know, so he isn’t really worried about him when he steps on the shiny wood and lets the music move him around. 

_ “Still?”  _ Ten complains when her hand finally clutches around Johnny’s, their legs synchronized, rolling along to the music and going with the flow. The speakers announce a slow song, time for all the couples to feel the love and Johnny sees this as a chance to loop his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders with their fingers still interlaced, careful to not bring any of them on their ass. It earns him a smile and a kiss on the back of his palm and that’s all he needs to get in the sappy mood. “At least he’s wearing the tie-dye shirt I made him. Even with that ugly spill of bleach on the back. Totally did something wrong, there.”

“I think it’s artistic.” 

“Tie-dye is already abstract without that, John, but I’ll take your crap since it makes me feel better about giving Yuta a shit shirt.” 

“I’m sure he thinks it’s artistic too, if it’s any consolation.” 

“Hm, did he tell you that?”

“Well, he didn't have—”

“Because he told me that the bleach splotch looks like that one time I came all over his shirt in the bathroom of that Denny’s we frequent.” 

Someone behind them chokes on their spit and skates right past them, not without an incredulous, wide-eyed, head to wheel stare at Ten. Johnny glares at their direction, all furrowed eyebrows and hidden threats and that seems to send the man zooming to the other side of the rink, a few annoyed insults thrown at him in his wake. 

“Hope he falls on his ass,” Johnny turns and sees the girls from before — Joy, he recalls, her girlfriend Taz in tow wearing a matching with her turtleneck that Johnny internally cheers for — skating along with them, her eyes tinged with disgust while following the man in the crowd. “You’re beautiful and Denny’s has never had a prettier person than you against their greasy ass walls.” 

“Oh, I know,” Ten grins and it’s indeed the most beautiful thing in the world, blinding even amongst the hundred little flickering lights the disco ball above their heads is reflecting around them. Or maybe Johnny is just too biased. “You bet I made sure the Denny’s won't forget that.”

The girls giggle and Ten winks at them, beaming, her hand squeezing Johnny’s once as a silent “thank you” for before. He kisses the top of her head, her shampoo something between bubblegum and cotton candy and the sweetness of it all makes Johnny’s head spin.

It’s the scent that his girlfriend carries, one that forces his heart to pump a pavlovian rush of love in his veins because of that first time he saw Ten, the air around them carrying this exact same smell under his nose and making him fall in love for the first time all over again. Ten knows, she probably does, because she hasn’t changed her shampoo ever since; not even when Yuta complains that it makes his hair smell like a swedish candy store, but keeps using it anyways, just to smell like her and proudly carry a piece of Ten around. 

“Now we all have something to remind us of that night." 

An arm snakes its way around Ten’s lean waist, fingers bunching up the soft material of her mini skirt until they graze on a patch of smooth skin. Ten giggles, not even needing to look in order to know whose hand is making a mess out of her clothes in a hidden attempt to stay on their feet. 

“I see you don’t like being talked about behind your back,” Ten quips, turning just to land a quick kiss on Yuta’s cheek, leaving faded, sticky pink right on his cheekbone. The song changes back to something upbeat and the space clears, leaving them room to scatter; but they prefer the warm embrace of their company over anything else, missing the touch every moment it leaves them. 

Yuta cackles, an nasty noise that makes his lovers smile and anticipate the line that will come out of Yuta’s filthy mouth next. 

“Depends. With your hands on said back, I wouldn’t really mind,” and here it comes indeed, as expected; but Johnny laughs loudly like it’s the first time Yuta dirty jokes in his presence. Ten shakes her head, sighing on his account and giving him just that — a pat on the butt with her free hand, before she mirrors him and sneaks her arm around his hips loosely, her fingers curling around his protruding and very much exposed hipbone above the hem of his low-cut jeans.

“You two and your affinity for public foreplay,” Johnny chuckles, letting go of Ten just to hold her hand again and twirl under it, ducking because of the endearing difference in height. Ten has to divide her attention but she is used to it by now — her head tilting to rest on Yuta’s own and her eyes turning to indulge Johnny’s messily executed but undeniably funky dance moves. 

“Nice move, baby, who taught you that?” 

“I learned that myself, Ten, thank you very much,” Johnny retorts and leaves her hand unheld just to circle around them both, music following his smooth steps and his rollerskates shining bright blue right under the bell opening of his ridiculous pants. He returns with a proud grin on his face, spinning around himself once as an end to his trick, the signal that concludes his performance. “But  _ that _ was all my teacher’s doing.” 

“She must be very good,” Yuta speaks from Ten’s nape and side where he is currently clinging on to dear life as if Ten is a personified safety railing and Yuta’s only chance of remaining vertical. Ten lets him, sacrificing free movement for cuddles; a prime paradigm of the equivalent exchange Edward Elric practices in that manga Yuta has made her read these days. He should be proud of her, honestly, for even remembering that. 

“If she’s that good, why don’t you trust her? You have your pain slider on zero, don’t you? Afraid to fall on your flat ass a little?” 

Yuta lets his claws unclasp from around Ten after the challenge has been spat out and the look that gets them both going has settled right on Ten’s face, provocatory and the kind of sexy Yuta can’t and never wants to resist. It has him rolling solo, spreading out in the middle of the rink but not straying too far away from them either, his own face still looking wary under the usual smugness. Yuta is not one to drop his character, not now, not ever.

Fun comes easy after that — they laugh, they wheel around, they dance; showing off and in Yuta’s case trying not to get their legs tangled; and it’s nice. More than nice. Johnny’s favorite hits are playing one after another like the DJ has borrowed the cassette he made himself to keep his bangers all in one place, letting them play like Johnny does when in the shower. Ten is pretty when on solid ground but is prettier on the move, the breeze she raises up when dashing from one side of the rink to the other making her hair fly, her skirt flare, and her cheeks and the tip of her nose red with the blush skin brings out when the heart beats fast behind its expanse. 

All of their hearts are synchronized like the slide of their skates, the beat of the blaring music; thump after thump after thump — on hardwood, in speakers, in their chest — of different types, different frequencies but belonging in the same precious moment they choose to add among all the others. They make up for the lost time back when they hadn’t met each other, when they were young and everything was fleeting. 

San Junipero is a place of memories, after all. A place to build them and a place to keep them alive — in all the irony that this may bring. 

* * *

  
“When she told you to fall on your ass, she didn’t mean it, you know.” 

When  _ Ebony Eyes,  _ Yuta’s self proclaimed anthem, started playing he didn’t hesitate one bit to charge on Johnny. With all the clumsy force that he could muster, something about his eyes that got him dreaming yelled against Johnny’s ear they both met the floor, Ten laughing her ass off before she jumped on her pile of boyfriends, making the situation much,  _ much  _ worse but at the same time a hundred times better. 

(“Isn’t this in the French Kiss album? Bob Welch?” Johnny had muttered, contemplative, against Ten’s nape. 

“If you give me one I’ll tell you,” Ten had smirked above his head and Johnny, because he takes his music really,  _ really  _ seriously, had given her a run for her money with Yuta forgetting all about the open scratches on his kneecaps just to lick the remnants of gloss off both their lips.) 

Now, Johnny is on one knee in front of Yuta, Ten pushing a swirly straw against his lips for a taste of her strawberry milkshake, compensation for getting his knee all scraped and bloody. He reaches in the small pocket of his disgustingly tight, floral shirt and takes out a bandaid, tie-dye, almost matching with Yuta’s gifted shirt and he pulls off the protective strips, sticking it carefully on Yuta’s knee, cleaned with a dipped in Ten’s water glass napkin, now resting on the table all soggy and bloody. 

“Here you go, please don’t fall on your knees anytime soon,” Johnny jokes as he is struggling to get up, all because of the restricting confines of his pants of choice. Yuta laughs at him with strawberry cream smeared on his lower lip. 

“Well, now, that’s a shame,” Ten retrieves the straw and wraps her pink lips around it, taking a generous sip, fishing a strawberry out of it and slipping it in her mouth, satisfied. She wipes her fingers clean with her tongue, holding eye contact with Johnny during all of it and Johnny reads her like an old, used, cracked on the spine book, lines underlined again and again to remember. 

“My knees are alright,” he shrugs in feigned nonchalance, threading a hand in his messy, long hair, slicking it back. Damn, he needs a shower — the rain did a bunch on his newly bleached hair. “These boys are always ready to jump into action,” he reminds them about his thighs of steel with a slap on said boys, Ten’s favorite seat and Yuta’s snack of choice. 

Yuta leans back against their table, arm finding its home around Ten’s shoulders like it always does, bringing her head on his chest just to take a deep breath of her and fill his lungs with it, powering up, enough to last him for as long as Johnny intends to steal her from him. He is aware that, if he wants, he can join; he can sit and watch, he can touch, he can guide — but nothing feels better than taking them both after simmering in the lewd soup of his thoughts while they are away. Like he said, it’s his own kind of fun, and it is a known fact that everything tastes better if you wait for it. 

Johnny and Ten leave him a mark on his neck and a half empty glass of milkshake to keep him company while they run away and out of the diner, all intertwined hands and smiles and he sucks the end of the straw with his eyes on them both, until they’re out of sight and their laughter echoes in the back of his mind, like it does every moment he misses them when they’re away. 

* * *

“Where did you find that? I took it out of your pocket,” Ten frowns when she catches Johnny fishing out the pack of lemon-aid Twists she had tried to hide from him when Johnny was busy carrying an overdramatic Yuta back to their booth. He searches for his lighter too, but when he can’t find it, he lifts a pair of expectant eyebrows at her, knowing that this is her masterful work, too. 

“Come on, doll, only for tonight,” he tries to reason, but they both know that the words are sugar-coated and hollow.  _ It’s only for tonight, _ but only whenever Ten pleads for no more. She looks at him, persistently and deep, trying to find something on his face he doesn’t know about; but she can’t seem to find it and that irritates her enough to not give in to Johnny’s sweet talk. 

“No, not tonight and not  _ ever,  _ Johnny,” she clicks her tongue and reveals Johnny’s zippo lighter, his initials engraved on the ageless metal. He has been keeping it with him ever since they first met, always cupping the flare protectively before lighting every cigarette, his addiction a secret between butane fueled flames and the filter pressed between his lips. The smoke smelled like lemon — always lemon — because Johnny hates the medical kind of iciness menthol fills the lungs with and the acrid feeling of pure, raw nicotine burning his throat. Ten hated it back then and she hates it now, his lighter still in her dainty fingers, lighting it and letting the small flame die, burning gas without regard, as if his lighter running out of it would make Johnny surrender. 

“It does no damage here, you know it. It’s harmless.”

“I don’t like the scent on you. That doesn’t change.”

Johnny sighs, a small smile raising the corners of his lips, the edge of his shoe sending a small rock right on a discarded coke can a few meters away, making it rattle, scaring a cat. Ten quietly chuckles and Johnny can’t help but chuckle too, lightening up the mood, breaking the tension. “Do you hate it enough to not give me a kiss?”

Ten looks at him again, turning to face him, only her side leaning against the brick wall of the dark alley, and this time, in his eyes, she finds something that she likes enough to do just that; grab the front of Johnny’s shirt and bring him down to her level to kiss him. 

The kiss is sweet, melted strawberry ice cream straight from Ten’s tongue tasting better than any dessert and Johnny chases it, sucking on it, pressing his body on her to deepen the kiss and taste it  _ more.  _ He has found out, after all these years, that kissing Ten is never enough and this time isn’t an exception. Even when she’s trapped between a wall and his chest, she keeps him wrapped around her little finger — her palms running up his sternum, cupping his neck, sending goosebumps on the expanse of his skin and blood south. He runs his own fingers on the sides of her thighs, her skin burning where exposed and scorching under her mini skirt riding up with every slide of skin on skin. 

“Johnny—fuck, babe—do you want to keep your mouth occupied?” 

“You’re not talking about smoking, do you?” He grins against her lips and she does too, their noses pressed on each other, Johnny’s fingers sneaking between her legs making her smile wider. “Tell me what you have in mind.” 

“I prefer to show you.”

Ten cards her fingers in his hair; she likes it long, Johnny knows — she comes harder when he is between her legs and she gets to pull at it. She does it now, her fists closing around his bleached tufts tightly to push him down, down,  _ down  _ to where she wants him the most. And he doesn’t care about where they are, who sees, who hears Ten when she comes on his tongue, her panties pushed to the side and his arms wrapped around her bare thighs.

San Junipero is ephemeral, for now; and hell, if they only have tonight this time, he wants to make sure nobody ever forgets them. 

* * *

“I’m in the mood for a movie,” Yuta tells them, jumping in the passenger’s seat of Johnny’s red Rolls-Royce, not bothering to pull the door open. Ten claims the backseat, throwing her skates on the space next to her and Johnny, seeing them all gathered like that, takes a mental picture for later. The engine roars and they leave the rollerskating rink behind, Johnny glancing at its red neon lights from the rearview mirror with a smile while Ten gets on her feet, to give Yuta the kiss he was waiting for while they left him behind, over the headrest of his seat. 

“The drive-in has—”

“We’re not watching Saturday Night Fever  _ again,  _ John,” Ten cuts him with finality. Yuta, though, has other plans and Johnny takes the turn that leads them to the drive-in cinema, cars already parked around, the movie about to start. 

“Oh, but we are,” Yuta grins and tugs on her lips with his teeth, stealing away every spoken and unspoken objection ready to leave them. 

“I will never understand why John Travolta gets you two going,” she nags while Johnny’s car comes to a halt a few feet away from the rest, the view still good and the privacy better. Despite everything, she swings a leg over Yuta’s lap when she climbs to the front, getting comfortable on his thighs, her skirt bunching up revealing her still wet panties; Johnny’s gift to her from earlier. Yuta feels her up — her sides, her perky ass and her thighs bracketing his — until his fingers prod without shame between them, assessing Johnny’s work with a smirk and a peck on the corner of Ten’s lips, her hips rolling once down his fingertips involuntarily. 

“Was she loud?” Yuta asks Johnny as if she is not present, knowing how much Ten loves it when she is all they talk about. He rubs her above her dampness and she moves again, this time keeping it up, the snap of her hips short and steady, her lips on Yuta’s neck littering marks down its column as he talks.

Johnny scoffs, throwing his legs up and out of the car, one on top of the other sprawled on the side of the dashboard. He pays Yuta’s ministrations no mind, his eyes on the screen where the movie is starting; the grainy Brooklyn Bridge looking pretty in front of a rowdy New York City. “I like her loud,” he smiles to himself, “and she knows I do.” 

“I don’t do it for you,” Ten muses a bit breathlessly, her thighs tensing with every move. 

“I do it  _ to  _ you, though,” Johnny retorts, his eyebrow quirking, a challenge for her to deny it. She doesn’t; she isn’t stupid enough to claim that every moan of hers isn’t stripped off of her whenever Johnny gets his hands on her, whenever they both do. 

“Will you be loud for me, darling?” Yuta retrieves his fingers from her pussy and Ten whimpers, a bite on the junction between Yuta’s shoulder and neck as her weak revenge. She makes a move to wrap her fingers around his wrist, to keep him where he was and where she wants him; but Yuta is faster — grabbing her hands in his instead, intertwining them and laying two soft kisses on the backs of her palms, softness contrasting the cruelty of his earlier action, a knowing grin on his face. 

“I can’t be loud with nothing inside me, Yuta,” she grumbles, but relishes in the affection Yuta’s feathery kisses fill her chest with. Every little thing Yuta does is deliberate; his thoughts run one after the other as if in a simulation, reading people like open books — pulling their reactions out of them slowly, a torturous build-up til the release, turning page after page after page until he sees the words  _ The End  _ on the very last one.

It’s with deliberation that he held Ten’s hands, just to slip her fingers between his lips now, pierced tongue twirling around one, two of her knuckles, flattening on the underside, his lips closing when they reach the base. Ten looks at him while he sucks, drinks the image up and gets drunk because of it, feels the slick of his spit and the drag of his tongue between her fingers, presses on the back of it just to see Yuta’s Adam's apple bob when he gulps. 

Johnny’s eyes have left the screen and are glued on them both, on the spot where Yuta’s lips meet Ten’s third knuckle, spit-slick and mesmerising. Yuta basks in the attention, making a spectacle out of himself and his sinful tongue, letting Ten’s fingers leave his mouth only for the metal of his piercing to drive both his lovers insane — tongue sticking out for them, licking from her knuckle to her yellow painted nail until her fingers nest inside his mouth again, not as wet as Yuta likes them yet. 

“You’re staring,” Ten tells Johnny, her eyes not leaving Yuta for a single moment.

“Sh,” Johnny whispers, focused. “I’m watching the movie.” 

Yuta huffs a chuckle out, amused and more than a little proud of himself, cutting the saliva line connecting the tips of Ten’s fingers with his lips with a flick of his tongue. He licks over them, as if he has savored his meal, satisfied. The glint in his eyes turns evil and sparkly in the darkness of the night, brighter than the dim lighting the projector image casts on them all. 

“Put those pretty fingers to use, baby," his tongue drips honey, like it always does, no matter if what he says is nothing close to sweet.

And Ten does, or at least tries to do so, reaching between her and Yuta to unbutton Yuta’s jeans, pulling down on the zipper — before he stops her, leaving her baffled.

“Not there,” Yuta instructs patiently, Johnny waiting, interested, and Ten, a bit frustrated, doing the same. “Here.” 

Johnny isn’t hard, not yet, but it almost feels too easy to get there when Yuta presses Ten’s palm right on his tightly snug in his pants bulge, Johnny’s legs parting a bit instinctively for her to feel him up better under the weight of her hand. He is unprepared; it shows all over his face and Yuta clearly loves to see it, expecting it and chuckling when he gets it. 

“Ten—” 

“Don’t say it,” Ten stops him with a squeeze on his clothed cock, the heel of her palm rubbing him to full hardness. “Say a word and I’ll make you cum all over those hideous pants you love.” 

“I  _ so  _ love it when you put our boyfriend in his place,” Yuta snickers, turning Ten’s face towards him with a pinch on her chin so he can suck a kiss on her lips, licking over them, leaving them red and wet. Ten rests her forehead on his, Johnny helping her to blindly wrap her fingers around his shaft, flush on her palm, big and getting bigger with every not-wet-enough tug. 

“Spit on it,” Yuta extends his free hand towards Johnny, expectant, and Johnny obeys, spitting right in Yuta’s palm without shame, thick and dripping. Yuta’s hand meets Ten’s around Johnny’s cock, covering the part her hand isn’t big enough to touch, lubing everything with Johnny’s spit. The easier slide drags the loudest moan of the night out of him, letting it mingle with the loud, disco soundtrack of the now forgotten movie in front of them. 

“I wonder who will put  _ you  _ in place,” Ten sasses Yuta, feeling brave and maybe a little desperate. Her panties were wet; but with every second of Yuta’s  _ everything  _ away from her cunt, she drips more, anticipating, desiring. 

The fingers of Yuta’s unoccupied hand reach down to where Ten had started getting him out of his pants before and he finishes the job, Ten rising on her knees and haphazardly pushing his jeans down to his thighs with Yuta on Johnny now instead of her, freeing his cock out of his briefs; he’s hard, the head of his cock leaking precum down her fingers and Ten spreads it down his length, thumb swiping over his slit, making his breath hitch. 

“Oh, love, I’m right where I should be,” Yuta leans back on his seat to prove a point, gesturing at Ten right in his lap and his hand around Johnny’s dick — both wet, squirming and impatient. “Are you?” 

“I’m _trying_ to be,” Ten almost growls, licking once on her already wet with Johnny’s precum palm before she reaches down on Yuta again, wanting this as wet and messy as possible like she knows they all like it best. “If you don’t get your cock inside me _right now,_ I’ll—”

“Lift your pretty ass up for me,” Yuta doesn’t let her plead, complain, say another word with a pat and a squeeze on her ass under her skirt, on her soft skin. “And push these aside. They’re dripping.” 

Ten lets herself fall down Yuta’s cock with a choked up whine and a sigh, finally getting filled up; her pussy sucks him in until he bottoms out and their thighs meet again with Yuta’s cock hitting her as deep as it goes. It feels almost liberating; she doesn’t feel complete without one of them tight inside her, every rub of her walls on their cock driving her insane. She rolls her hips, slowly, experimentally, just to see what pace will make her the most delirious, will send her closer to her release. Yuta grips on her hip, firm, grounding — keeps her right where she should be and follows her as she grinds down on his cock, snug deep inside her pussy, her slick and spit releasing a lewd, obscene sound between them that only they can hear. 

“I’m—fuck, how does she feel, Yuta?” Johnny is panting right next to them, Yuta’s hand around him tight and unforgiving and Johnny cups it with his own just to feel his boyfriend closer, to coax him to squeeze more, to make him cum like Ten promised; even if that means making a complete mess out of himself just to please her more. 

“She’s squeezing around me like the little fucking  _ slut  _ she is,” Yuta purrs right next to Ten’s ear, her forehead on his shoulder and her lip bitten down between sharp teeth, her moans barely contained with every snap of her hips on Yuta’s dick. Yuta’s dirty mouth makes her clamp down on him harder, pussy clenching with every affirmation that Yuta gets off because of her — because of Ten being shameless, open, filled up and claimed in front of everyone around them without a sliver of hesitation. 

“Was it worth the wait, baby?” Johnny breathes out with a strained chuckle, his free hand reaching out to lift and cup her face, completely smitten, gone. For her, for Yuta, for what they’re doing to him and for what is going on between them. Ten nods,  _ god,  _ she does, desperately so, nodding again with her lips parting, taking Johnny’s thumb in her mouth just to be filled with something from every side, to feel them both on her while her second orgasm of the night is slowly catching up to her. 

They all move against each other like they have done a hundred times before and it feels new but also so familiar, San Junipero letting them live in a way nothing else can, to kiss, to touch, to fuck without a care for anything in the whole wide world except for them three and, well—time. 

With mere minutes left on the clock Ten comes, thighs shaking as she drips down Yuta’s cock, his own cum shooting inside her with a groan elicited from the pit of his stomach, deep where all the heat pools and burns him from the inside — in the form of want, love and every other feeling he keeps for the people dearest to him. 

Johnny is spent; cock limp and resting against his stomach, getting his ugly, floral blue shirt all cum-stained and useless. He stares at his lovers, both riding the highs of their respective orgasms, smiling to each other, equally spent against the expensive leather of the seats of his dream car — and Johnny finds that he doesn’t care. 

Time flies, they catch their breaths as John Travolta corrects his life mistakes on the screen, and with the last seconds before midnight ticking away, Johnny keeps his eyes on his lovers. 

To him, San Junipero tastes like Dr. Pepper, Ten’s tongue like strawberries and Yuta’s own like the cheap, sticky lip gloss he steals from her. And above everything else, love tastes like them all. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> you can find me [here](https://twitter.com/yeekiies) !!!!


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